


Road Trip

by tifaching



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Constellations, Gen, Gen Work, Road Trips, Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26519059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tifaching/pseuds/tifaching
Summary: Dean's got cash and five days before he has to pick up Sam at Pastor Jim's.  A road trip will kill some time.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13
Collections: Supernatural Summergen 2020





	Road Trip

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2020 spn_summergen challenge on Live Journal

“Dean. Hey.”

Dean ignores the voice and rolls over, curling up under the light sheet covering him and shifting to find a cool spot on his overheated pillow. His attempt to gain a few more moments of oblivion fails when droplets of cold liquid spatter across his face. It feels kind of good, actually, but his dad can come up with a lot more physical ways to get him out of bed so he reluctantly sits up, rubbing his eyes.

“Okay, okay,” he says, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs. “I’m awake.”

“Good.” John’s sitting on the opposite bed, cradling a cup of steaming coffee, the grey light of dawn seeping through the dingy curtains behind him. Dean’s eyes fix on the coffee and his father grins and motions with his cup to the bedside table. “Late night?”

“Mmmmph,” Dean nods, sipping at his own cup of scalding coffee. The clock on the bed table reads five forty-seven a.m. and he’d closed down the local pool hall at a little after three. His lip quirks up at the memory of how he’d closed it down and the pull on his split lip comes just as a splash of coffee hits it and he sets down the cup with a muffled curse.

“ _Rough_ night?” John gently grips Dean’s chin and tilts his head to get a good look at his shiner. “Anything worse?”

“Nah,” Dean shakes his head, willing himself to not hunch over his aching ribs. “And it was worth it.”

“How worth it?”

“Very worth it.”

Dean reaches out one bare foot and snags the beltloop of his jeans, dragging them across the floor until he can lift them without bending over too much. He digs into the pocket and comes out with a thick roll of bills. “Very, _very_ worth it.”

“Whew.” John lets out a low whistle and plucks the money from Dean’s hand, flipping through the bills as he raises an eyebrow. “Pool or poker?”

“Pool. I lucked into the night of the annual local big shot tournament.” Dean shifts uncomfortably on the bed and his father’s gaze sharpens. 

“Sore losers?”

“Yeah. Fortunately they sucked even worse at fighting than they did shooting pool.” Dean takes another careful sip of coffee. “So, what’s up? I know you didn’t disturb my hard earned sleep to drink coffee and talk about my night.”

“Yeah.” John peels a few bills off the roll and tucks them in his pocket before handing the rest back to Dean. “Caleb caught wind of a hunt in Louisiana he needs backup on. Nest of ghouls, he thinks. Should be here any minute to pick me up.”

“Wait. Dean shakes his woozy head. “Why don’t we just meet him where he is?”

“Because,” John says, dropping the Impala’s keys on the table, “somebody needs to pick up Sam at Jim’s.”

Dean shakes his head again, swallowing down a sigh. “Dad, Pastor Jim’s camp runs through Saturday. If I pick him up early I’ll never hear the end of it. And you know Sam could stay there after for as long as he wants.”

“Jim’s got a seminar in Kansas City starting on Sunday. Trust me, I had the same thought. It’s a day’s drive, Dean. You could hang out until Saturday.” John grins at the expression on his eldest’s face. “Or not. The room’s paid through tonight.” He gestures at Dean’s pool hall haul. “You can cover your own room and board for the rest of the week if you decide not to go to Jim’s.”

“Deal,” Dean says, stifling a yawn. “What should I do after I pick up Sam?’

“Hunker down somewhere near Jim’s. I’ll call when the hunt is done.”

Two brief blasts from a horn sound and John drains his cup and tosses it in the trash before grabbing his duffle and heading for the door. Dean waits until his father’s back is turned before pushing himself up from the bed, gritting his teeth to suppress a groan. He returns Caleb’s taciturn wave and nod from the doorway and straightens when John turns to him before getting in Caleb’s truck.

“We’ll probably be at least a week, maybe two. Keep your phone charged, be in Blue Earth on Saturday and take care of those ribs.”

Dean nods and lets himself sag against the doorway, just a bit. “Yes, sir.” He watches until the truck turns out of the parking lot and heads down the road before locking the door and heading back to bed.

*

Dean sleeps until noon and wakes with a head less filled with cotton and a torso still screaming bloody murder. He swallows a couple of aspirin that may or may not be in date with the dregs of his ice cold coffee. His left side is a massive bruise, but careful probing at his ribs doesn’t show any signs of real damage. A hot shower and careful stretching ease the pain a little so he’s extra hopeful it’s just a muscle strain. The one good shot the local pool shark got in last night was a pool cue directly into Dean’s rib cage so hope might be mixed up with delusion but he’s good that way, so whatever.

He gives his clothes the sniff test and puts on the least offensive he can find. A rumbling from his midsection reminds him he hasn’t eaten since last night and he sighs as he finishes lacing up his boots. The coffee shop at the motel can’t make a decent cheeseburger or plate of pancakes and the only other eating place within twenty miles is a bar with some pool tables that he probably shouldn’t be showing his face at any time soon. He takes a deep breath, gaze traveling from the suspicious spots on the carpet to the mildew on the ceiling by the bathroom door. He blows the breath out and straightens his shoulders, a grin forming on his face. Dad said he had to pay for his own room and board. He didn’t say he had to do it here.

Ten minutes later he’s stashing his duffle and his winnings under the fake floor in the Impala’s trunk and peeling out of the parking lot. He heads west out of town, past empty store fronts and the grey, rundown post office in the opposite direction of the pool hall and puts Ainsworth Nebraska in his rear view mirror. 

The road unspools under the hum of the car’s tires and Dean rolls down the window to catch the warm air of late summer on his face. It’s overcast but not raining and he wends through back roads bracketed by corn stalks until he sees small fencepost signs for Marie’s Farmhouse Restaurant and Pie shop and follows them until he finds the place itself. A weathered barn sits just behind a bright yellow house with red and white checkered curtains in the windows and a wide, flower bedecked front porch. There are more cars parked out front than he would have expected for a place this out of the way but it’s a good sign as to the quality of the food. He grabs a battered road atlas from the glove box and stifles a groan as the smell of cooking hits his nose as he climbs the steps. The screen door squeaks as he pushes it open and a few faces turn his way but most are too engrossed in food and conversation to pay him any mind. The tables are all full but a waitress refilling water glasses catches his eye.

“Have a seat on the porch, hon,” she says with a smile. “I’ll have a table for you in just a few minutes.”

Dean nods and takes a seat in a rocking chair, sinking into the soft cushion and watching a flock of chickens busily going about their chicken business in the hard packed dirt of the parking lot. The door does creak open again in just a matter of minutes but it’s just the waitress delivering a glass of lemonade to tide him over while he waits.

“Looks good,” he says, giving her his best cheeky grin. “But I’d rather have a beer.”

She smiles at him and raises an eyebrow. “Sweetie, you are not old enough to be ordering beer, or I’m turning in my mom card.”

Dean’s got to admit she’s got him there, though at eighteen he has a perfectly good fake ID attesting that he’s twenty-one. Works well enough on dive bartenders who really don’t give a damn, but mom waitresses never even let him get it out of his wallet.

His smile becomes more natural as he shrugs. “Worth a try,” he says. “Lemonade sounds great, thank you.”

“Good.” She hands the glass to Dean and holds the door for two men in jeans and t-shirts to come out. “Give me five minutes to clear their table and then come on in. My name’s Susan if you need anything.”

Dean empties the glass in a few deep gulps, the tart, cold liquid refreshing as it slides down his throat. It may be the best lemonade he’s ever had and he hopes they have free refills. He taps the folded atlas against his hand, deciding that travel plans will go better on a full stomach, watches the chickens for a few more minutes and heads inside.

The menu is small but full of things he loves and he settles on fried chicken with fries and corn on the cob. The refills are indeed free and he drains glass after glass of the frosty liquid. The chicken is picked clean to the bone and the corn to the cob before he runs the last fry through the ketchup and sits back with a barely stifled burp. He looks around for Susan to order dessert, but she’s got a few new customers needing her attention so he flips open the atlas and tries to plan what he’s going to do with the few days he’s got before heading to Pastor Jim’s. It’s less than a day’s drive from where he is now, but it’s only Monday. Sam’s been in Blue Earth, studying Latin and comparative religion and playing soccer for almost a month but he’s going to want every last minute there he can get. Bobby’s isn’t far either but Dean’s got the car and some money and he’s itching to just get in the Impala and drive somewhere new.

“You ready for dessert, hon?” Susan’s standing by the table, pitcher of lemonade in her hand.

Dean hold up a hand and shakes his head at the lemonade. “No, thank you, I’m about to float away. But I’ll have a slice of apple pie with vanilla ice cream, please.”

“Best pie in the county,” Susan says. “Made by yours truly.” She leans over to look at the atlas. “Planning a trip?”

“Yeah.” Dean considers making something up. Nobody needs to know your business is one of the main Winchester rules. Screw it this time. He’s not on a hunt and he’s not sticking around here. “My dad’s on a business trip and he left me the car to pick my brother up on Saturday. In Minnesota. So, I’ve got transportation and I’ve got a little time and I just want to…”

“Road trip?” Susan looks over her shoulder and waves at the young man behind the counter. “Marcus? Could you bring over a slice of apple pie a la mode?” Marcus nods his assent and Susan turns her attention back to Dean. “My youngest did this last year. He had all summer though, and went cross country. Doesn’t seem like you’ve got that kind of time. Any idea where you want to go?”

Dean’s been across the country from east to west and north to south but never on his own and never with time to just stop and see things. Vegas is high on his list but it would eat up time to get there and if he lost his money, his father would kill him. As it is, he’s planning on spending just enough to enjoy himself while still putting the bulk aside for emergencies. “I’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon,” he says wistfully. “But I don’t think I’d have the time for that.”

“How about Yellowstone?” Dean’s got the atlas open to the map of the US and she taps at Wyoming. “It’s right next door and it’s got a sort of Grand Canyon of its own. Not close to the same, of course, but still pretty impressive. And it’s got Old Faithful if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

“That’s the, uh, water that shoots up out of the ground, right?” Dean vaguely remembers a kid in his junior high science fair doing a project on it. It had seemed pretty cool and he’d wanted to see it for real at the time.

“That’s the one! They’ve got other geysers too that are pretty impressive. Even if you’ve only got a day or two you can see a lot of nifty things. Not to mention the wildlife. Have you traveled much?”

“All the time for my dad’s work.” Susan steps back as Marcus deposits a large slab of pie with a mound of vanilla ice cream on top in front of Dean. Dean tips his head back to give the waiter a big grin. “Thank you, man.”

“No prob,” Marcus says, heading back to the counter. “Enjoy.”

“But we didn’t see much other than from the car window or what was near a motel.” Dean takes a big bite of pie and moans a little as it smacks up against his taste buds. “This is amazing. My uncle Bobby took us to the Badlands once and taught us how to track, though. That was fun.”

“Well, maybe you can brush up on your tracking while you’re there. Plenty of animals around.” A call comes from a nearby table for more water and Susan pats Dean on the shoulder before putting his check on the table. “You have a good trip, where ever you end up, sweetie.”

“I will, thanks!” Dean swallows down the last of the pie and drains what’s left of his lemonade to the bottom of the glass. He drops the money for the tab on the table along with an unusually generous tip for Susan and heads for the bathroom before he hits the road. When he comes out, Susan is standing by his cleared table, a fifty dollar bill in her hand.

“You need change for this?”

“Nope.” Dean goes back to the cheeky grin. “Great service, fabulous pie, good conversation and travel advice. You earned it.”

“You sure you won’t need it?”

Dean huffs out a laugh and tells the truth again. “I had a really good night at the pool hall. I’m set for a bit.”

Susan laughs in return and her gaze sweeps him from head to toe. “Bet they never see you coming.”

“Not often.” Dean inclines his head as he turns to head out the door. “Thanks again.”

“Drive safe,” she says and he gives her a wave as he heads down the steps. A few minutes more with the atlas and he’s headed toward the interstate and the Nebraska/Wyoming state line.

*

By the time he crosses into Wyoming the sun is shining, the road is flat and smooth and he lets the Impala go, engine roaring as he presses down on the gas. The radio station is mostly static now so he reaches out blindly for a tape and pops it in. He can feel Sam’s eye roll from all the way in Blue Earth as Metallica blares out. “Driver picks the music,” he says, feeling a tiny pang that there’s no one there to object. It’s not like he hasn’t driven alone before, even long distance. He’s been sent to Bobby’s or Caleb’s more than once to pick up something his dad needed. He rolls his shoulders under his t-shirt and belts out the chorus to Master of Puppets while he drums on the wheel, wind rushing past his face as he speeds down the highway.

It’s well past dark by the time he hits the outskirts of Casper and he almost pulls into the parking lot of the first dump motel he comes to. There’s a Best Western sign showing on the next block though. He’s never stayed in one but he’s sure it’s a step up from his usual lodgings so he wheels the Impala into their lot instead. The lobby is bright, with clean wallpaper and the young woman behind the desk is wearing a nametag that says Kristen so it’s already miles above the place he left this morning. He whistles when she tells him the room rate for the night. No wonder he’s never stayed here before. Even though for a one night stay Dad would use a fake card, he’d still be thrifty with it. He forks over the money and collects his key and a slip of paper that turns out to be a voucher for breakfast. This might not be such a bad deal after all.

“The elevator is down the hall,” Kristen says, pointing over Dean’s shoulder. “You’re on the third floor, left out of the elevator, all the way to the end. Enjoy your stay!”

“I intend to,” Dean says, shouldering his duffle and heading for the elevator. He stops by a wall of brochures and fishes a bunch out of the Yellowstone section and a couple of Casper night spots. Seems like there might be enough right here to keep him busy for a couple of days, but he knows he needs to experience things when he has the chance. Someday he’s going to make it to the Grand Canyon.

The room is spotlessly clean and smells only of the lemony polish used on the furniture. The taps in the bathroom turn on and off without leaking and there’s not a hint of mold on the ceiling. He almost feels bad about laying down salt lines that someone’s going to have to vacuum up, but safety before cleanliness isn’t even really a decision. There’s a full size TV with a list of cable channels that he’s never even heard of so he plops down on the bed closest to the door and begins to channel surf. When he stumbles across a mummy movie marathon he kicks off his boots and settles in for the night, alternating his attention between the movie and his brochures. When he drifts off during a pivotal wolfman scene, the pillow cushioning his head is the thickest he’s ever had.

He hits the road bright and early the next morning, stuffed full of pancakes and eggs, a few bagels spread with strawberry cream cheese from the buffet stuffed into his pockets. The was definitely the best hotel he’d ever stayed at. From what he got from the brochures there are a few hotels in Yellowstone, but he’s not sure he’d want to spend so much on them, even if he could get a room. One spot had small, basic cabin that didn’t cost an arm and a leg. That might work. And if he absolutely has to, he and the Impala can get a campsite. It’s still a drive to the park but the sky is a cloudless blue, the roads have been recently paved and the car rolls along like she’s on glass. Cassette after cassette gets popped into the player and Dean bellows along at the top of his lungs. He keeps just at the edge of the speed limit. No point in getting delayed by the cops. There’s a shading in the distance that clears into mountains as he gets closer, peaks white with exposed rock.

It’s just after noon when he hits the east entrance to the park, joining a long line of cars and campers waiting to get through to the ticket booths. It’s a slow crawl and without the rush of the wind that speed brought the air is heavy and hot. He’d stocked his dad’s green cooler with beer and water a few towns back and since rangers and park police are plentiful he decides a nice cold water would be the way to go. There’s a pair of kids in cowboy hats waving at him through the rear window of the car in front of him and he gives them a wave back as well as aiming finger guns as they stage a mock gunfight. The creep and crawl of stop and go traffic sets his teeth on edge but there are miles and miles of roads in the park and they can’t all be covered in cars. Once he gets through here he’ll be fine. Forty-five minutes later he rolls up to the ticket kiosk and is greeted by a grizzled middle-aged man in a Smokey the Bear hat.

“Welcome to Yellowstone,” the ranger says with a smile. “And that is a sweet car. Sixty-seven?”

“Yes, sir.” Dean grins back at him. Anyone who can appreciate the Impala is a good guy no matter what kind of stupid hat he wears.

“First time visiting us?”

“Yep. Had a few days to kill and decided to come see the sights.”

“Well, we got plenty of those. Are you staying in the park?”

“Hoping to. I don’t have any firm plans yet.”

“Well, let me see. There’s a few cabins left at Yellowstone Lake and some campsites at Fishing bridge. You should probably head straight there to get it settled before you travel around. It’ll be twenty dollars for a weeklong pass. If you end up staying out of the park the pass will get you right back in again.”

“Twenty bucks for a week? Damn.” Dean hands over a twenty dollar bill and takes the pass and a couple of maps from the ranger. “Can’t beat that.”

“I agree. Okay, now head on in and follow the signs for the lake. It’s about an hour drive. Obey the speed limit, be careful driving after dark and don’t go denting that beauty on any buffalo.”

“No, sir, I sure won’t.” Dean gives a wave and heads off into the park. The road curves and the buildings disappear behind him and all he sees are waving grasslands, trees and mountains. He does drive slowly, though it goes against every fiber of his being. There are creatures everywhere here, small and large and he wants to give them the wide berth and consideration he hopes they give him. The traffic spreads out as the cars head various different directions and within a few miles the road is far less congested. There are birds flitting everywhere back and forth in front of him and he never thought he’d be a guy that paid birds any mind but he finds himself following their flight path and trying to single them out for their bright colors. When a hawk starts circling overhead he wants to pull over and watch it hunt but the need to get a place to stay for the night wins out and he continues on sure he’ll get a chance to see one again.

*

The lake is large and as Dean drives the road overlooking the shore he watches what looks like little plumes of smoke rising from various spots near the water. From his reading he knows it’s just steam rising from tiny geysers or hot springs but it’s still a little creepy. He’d seen something similar when hunting spirits in a swamp in Alabama once and he’s half tempted to get closer to the spots of steam to check them out just to be sure. He laughs and shakes his head at himself. Nope. He’s on vacation here and unless something jumps out to pull him in, he’s definitely not hunting.

The lodge parking lot is half empty when he pulls in. The building is one story with a wide porch across the front. People in rocking chairs line the porch, enjoying a view of the lake and Dean can see small cabins spread among the trees on the hill behind the lodge. With luck one will be his home for the next few nights.

There’s a cafeteria inside and a fireplace surrounded by couches and chairs. A shelf holds stacks of board games and Dean wishes Sam were here so they could have a competitive game of Parcheesi. If Sam wasn’t at Pastor Jim’s though, neither of them would be here. They’d be sitting in a moldy hotel room in Nebraska while Dad took the car to go hunt with Caleb. Maybe he and Sam will be able to get back here some day, but he’s not going to count on it.

It turns out there is one cabin left for the next three nights and he manages to snag it. It had been rented but when the couple found out there was no TV anywhere in the park they decided to head back to civilization to stay.

“No TV?” Dean shakes his head in disbelief. “Anywhere?” “No TV,” the woman behind the counter replies with a smile. “Anywhere. You can play games or the piano or sit on the porch and chat in the evenings. Every night there’s a bonfire and ranger program in the little amphitheater near the cabins. In the daytime you should be out seeing things. You can watch TV at home.

Dean can’t argue with that so he doesn’t. He takes his key and goes to sit on the porch for a bit to eat his bagels. The air is fresh and smells of pine and the cushion of the rocker is thick and comfortable. There’s a squirrel yelling at something in the trees across the road and he doesn’t remember when he last felt this relaxed. The pain in his side has receded, barely noticeable if he doesn’t stress it. The sun is warm on his face and he half dozes and makes plans until dusk approaches and it’s time to go in for dinner.

After a meal of spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread and chocolate cake, he heads up the hill to check out his cabin. It’s small - two beds, a nightstand with a lamp between them and a dresser against the far wall. The bathroom is tiny with a sink, toilet and small corrugated tin shower that would be a tight squeeze for anyone bigger than him. Still, it’s a palace compared to some of the places he’s stayed. Before it gets full dark he heads back down to the car to collect a flashlight, his duffle and the cooler. Light and laugher stream from the doors and windows of the lodge and he decides to hang out for a bit. There are books and magazines on the shelf with the games so he grabs a Car and Driver that’s only a few months old and plonks himself down in an armchair in the corner to read. The room fills up and Dean watches from his corner as couples and families gather around the tables for games. Weapons are strictly prohibited in the park, he’s seen the signs everywhere. Still he’s got a few surprises tucked away in case any of the innocent looking tourists turn out to be monsters. He’s not expecting it, not really. But he’s also not _not_ expecting it. Around eight-thirty people start to head out for the bonfire and Dean tags along.

A short walk down a dark path lit only by flashlight beams leads to a fire brightly crackling in a clearing. Benches set in rows surround the fire and Dean takes the last seat available, next to a girl of about six and her family. She looks up at him with concern on her small face.

“Do you think they’ll tell ghost stories?” Her voice drops to a whisper at the last two words.

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “Will you be scared if they do?”

“Maybe a little,” she confides.

“Carrie, you know there’s no such thing as ghosts,” her mother says, putting an arm around her shoulders.

“Yes,” she says in a small voice. “But…”

Dean looks down at her with a smile. “Carrie, you’ve got your mom and dad on that side and me on this side. No ghosts are going to get you.”

“No ghosts?”

“No ghosts.

“Okay,” she says, seeming slightly reassured.

As it turns out, no ghost stories are told. The rangers give the assembled tourists a talk about grizzly bear avoidance and what to do in the unfortunate circumstance you don’t avoid them and also spend some words on buffalo and elk. Dean wants nothing more than to give all of the animals a wide berth. He’s run into enough wildlife on hunts to realize this is not a petting zoo. A Native American ranger comes by next and begins to tell tales of her people. Dean listens closely and makes notes of the lore of tricksters and shamans and the spirits of the mountains. He glances down at Carrie from time to time to make sure it’s not too much for her, but she’s enraptured by the stories. Dean’s never run into a trickster but he’s seen shamans at work a time or two and he’s pretty sure the tales aren’t going into all the gory details that they could be. He trails the rest of the campers back up the path after the campfire is over, scanning the woods for whatever might come out of the dark. Back at the cabin he makes notes about the trickster lore, in case it’s something his dad doesn’t already know and drinks a beer on the cabin’s steps under the stars and calls it a night.

In the morning, he doesn’t get up right away. There’s a slight chill in the air and the blankets are warm and there is nowhere he absolutely has to be. Eventually, the need for food and coffee drives him from under the covers. He braves the tiny shower and heads down to breakfast.

The desk at the lodge has a schedule for Old Faithful’s expected eruptions and he grabs one as he heads out the door. It’s a drive to the geyser, because the park is freakin’ huge, but Dean thinks that’s a good thing. If everything was right on top of each other, all the people would be right on top of each other too. He’d seen buffalo from a distance on his way in yesterday so he takes it slow as he drives down the road. As he gets further from the wooded area around the lake and into the grasslands, more and more of the giant animals wander around the roadways. He stops the car once or twice as parts of the herd pass close by, rolling their eyes toward him as they travel just past the Impalas side mirrors. He’s faced down scarier creatures but the knowledge that a spell or salt blast won’t back these things off makes him extra, extra cautious. Two hours later, after carefully navigating a seeming sea of buffalo and then a herd of elk, he pulls into the Old Faithful parking lot.

“For fuck’s sake,” he grumbles when even off the road he’s not free from meandering animals the size of small cars. There’s not a parking spot available that doesn’t have a grazing buffalo or napping elk within what he considers charging distance. Still, there are tourists wandering around, some with small children and rangers who don’t seem to be panicking so he cautiously exits the impala and circles behind it sure that the variety of knives he’s got secreted throughout his clothing won’t be enough to save him if one views him as a threat. Most of the people wandering around, he will bet a tiny portion of what money he’s got left, aren’t armed at all. A petite, dark haired ranger catches his eye as she walks past and he trots to catch up with her.

“Good morning,” he says, giving her his best smile.

“Good morning,” she replies, looking at her watch. “Just barely. Time flies around here. Can I help you with something?”

“Uh, yes. I’m here to see Old Faithful.”

“Well, you’re in the right place.” She points to a sign a ways down the parking lot at the entrance to a boardwalk that circles the wide open space in front of them. “Head down to the left. See the benches with the people over there? That’s where you want to be.”

“Thanks,” he says, slowly making his way down the pavement to the boardwalk. None of the animals pay him any mind as he sidles past them. There don’t seem to be any further down the walkway and he casts quick glances over his shoulder until he’s well out of range. The walkway disappears into the distance in both directions and he wanders off toward the left. There are little things scurrying through the grass as he walks by but all he can see is the waving of the stalks. The benches for the geyser viewing are about half full and he settles into a seat three rows back. There’s not much going on so he watches a pair of hawks circle high above until one dives down into the grass, emerging with something small and furry in its talons. He’s kicking himself for not grabbing the binoculars out of the trunk. Not to see a little furry thing become lunch, obviously, but to get a good look at their predators. Hunters are hunters and his father taught him to learn from everything.

“First time?” There’s an elderly man sitting to Dean’s right, a wide brimmed straw hat shielding his wrinkled face.

Dean nods. “I had a few days to kill and someone suggested I spend them here. How can you tell?” “Just guessing. It’s my first time here myself.” He holds out a plastic container. “Chips Ahoy?” Dean reaches out to grab one and the man shakes the container at him. “Take a handful, son. I shouldn’t be having all this sugar anyway.”

Dean takes a handful. “Thanks,” he mumbles through a mouthful of cookie. “So, when’s this show supposed to get started?”

“Not sure.” The old man holds out a hand. “I’m Marty, by the way.”

“Dean.” He takes the offered hand, careful with his grip, but Marty gives his hand one tight squeeze and lets him go. Just then there’s a bubbling sound and a hiss from the geyser and a wall of water shoots high into the air.

“Wow!” Marty says, just as Dean lets out a “Holy shit.” Dean sneaks a look at the older man and his grin is delighted. It transitions to sad, just for a moment as he reaches out a hand on the opposite side of Dean but is straight back to joyous in a matter of seconds.

“Isn’t this marvelous?” Marty asks and Dean can’t help but nod in agreement. He’s seen some pretty weird things but never something that didn’t have a skanky witch or some other supernatural bad guy behind it. This is real. It’s normal and natural and Dean’s got a pretty big grin on his face himself. They sit there, enrapt, with the rest of the audience until the jet of water begins to recede, finally disappearing back beneath the ground. The crowd around them begins to disperse but Marty remains on the bench and Dean doesn’t really have anyplace to be so he sits with him.

“You traveling by yourself, Dean?”

“For the moment,” Dean says with a shrug. “Usually I’m with my father and brother but we’ve gone our own way this week.

“Me too. My wife and I planned to come here many times, but something always got in the way. She passed in May and I’m eighty-two now, so I figured I’d come see it and tell her all about it when I meet up with her again.

“Meet up with her again?” Dean’s on alert, suddenly. Marty seems like a nice guy but having a dead wife that he meets up with sets him on edge.

“Well, yeah. In heaven, I hope.

“Oh. Yeah. Heaven. Well, I hope you see her again there too.” Dean in no way believes in God or heaven but Marty seems like a nice guy and if he wants to bank on a deity that cares more power to him.

Marty reaches for a heavy walking cane and levers himself to his feet. “Well, I better get going. Even for this place, I’m a slow driver.” He holds out his hand again. “It was nice meeting you, Dean.”

“You too.” Dean shakes his hand and Marty nods.

“It’s good that you got here, now. Let me tell you, don’t wait to go places and see things. You may never get there.”

Dean watches him walk away and shakes his head. The good luck of the pool winnings, Sam being at Pastor Jim’s and his dad going with Caleb to hunt isn’t something that he’s counting on happening again. He’s tried to do things with Sam- local fairs, a science museum or two, but trips of a lifetime? Not something he’s sure they’ll ever get to.

The afternoon is still young and Dean gets his binoculars from the car and spends the rest of it wandering the boardwalk. More geysers erupt along his path, none as spectacular as the first, but still pretty impressive nonetheless. From across the plateau he sees Old Faithful go up again and the different perspective makes it seem even more awesome. He spends some time staring at bubbling mud pots, thinking that they’re just the sort of thing that something straight from hell would come crawling out of. Near one is the skull and shoulder of a buffalo calf, picked clean by scavengers. Probably. Could have been a creature from hell too. Watching the kids running around and the laughing parents, Dean’s struck by just how strange it is for him to be here. Not for a hunt, not to kill anything or protect someone, but just to see new things. He’s determined to enjoy it while it lasts.

The time goes quickly and before Dean knows it it’s late afternoon. He’s been sitting on a fallen log, scanning the distance with the binoculars but all he’s seen are rabbits, something that looks like a groundhog but probably isn’t and a pair of circling vultures. He makes his way back to the parking lot and grabs an ice cream at the stand before heading back to his lodgings. Leaning on the Impala’s warm hood while he licks the cone clean he sees Old Faithful go up one final time. He watches the whole thing, committing it to memory before he gets in the car and heads out.

The drive back is just as slow and perilous as the drive out. The animals own the roads here and they know it. Dean doesn’t mind. Having the Impala to himself, guiding her along their path feels like nirvana to him right now. About halfway back, passing through a grassy area bordered by trees, he stops behind a line of cars pulled off to the side of the road.

“Hey, what’s going on,” Dean calls to one of the bystanders.

“Wolves,” the woman replies, gesturing to the hillside across the road. “Up by the trees.”

Dean pulls out his binoculars and scans the area. And there they are. Six in the pack, gamboling their way along the tree line. His breath catches at the graceful, purposeful way they move, even in play. It’s all practice for hunting, he knows. In some lives everything is practice for hunting. He and Sam have been watching nature programs ever since his brother learned there were other channels than those showing cartoons and monster movies,- and he’s learned lots from them whether he wanted to or not. They lope effortlessly across the grass, until, one by one, they disappear into the trees. They don’t give the watching crowd a moment of their attention and Dean gives a tiny salute as the last brushy tail disappears into the underbrush. “Good hunting,” he wishes them.

*

After dinner, pleasantly stuffed with rainbow trout and roasted potatoes, Dean sits on the porch digesting. He decides to forgo the campfire tonight and watch the skies instead. It’s too light on the porch so he moves to the parking lot, stretching out along the Impala’s hood, back resting against her windshield. The stars are brilliant against a pitch black sky and he entertains himself by sorting out the constellations. Sam has a small star guide that he scored in a third grade gift swap and it’s something he’s made sure is in his duffle whenever they move. Dean spots the dippers and Orion and the great bear but he’s a little fuzzy on the others without his little brother lounging beside him, finger tracing the twinkling lights in the sky. A meteor shoots across the heavens and buns out. Dean thinks about making a wish. Wants to. But he doesn’t. They never come true anyway.

Clouds are building against the bright night and a low rumble of thunder echoes in the distance. Lightning flashes across the lake, across the forests, still far away but on its way. Dean heads for the cabin ahead of the first raindrops and the storm rumbles through in the middle of the night, barely disturbing his slumber.

*

The drive to the canyon is another slow, visually stunning trip. Dean pulls over twice; once to watch a moose and her calf grazing in a marsh and a second time to allow a pair of foxes to trot down the road in safety until they made their way off into the tall grass. The storm came and went overnight and the sky is again blue and sunny. The grasslands eventually give way to the canyon, a vast, rocky scar across the land off to his left as he drives. Following the traffic, he pulls onto a one way road to the canyon’s overlook spots. The road gives good views of the top of the canyon, rich and dark with color, but not down inside so when a sign come up for a waterfall he pulls into the parking lot. He follows more signs to a trail that leads to a sturdy concrete platform overlooking raging whitewater charging over a waterfall that has to be three hundred feet high. Dean grips the railing until his knuckles whiten, staring at the roiling water, unrelenting in its violence. There are people further down on a platform even closer to the falls and he sets his feet carefully, determined not to slip on the steep, rocky trail as he slowly makes his way down. The lower platform is so close to the water Dean can feel the spray on his face and the roar of its passing drowns out anything but shouts. The speed the water rushes over the edge is terrifying and he wonders how far upstream you’d have to go to ford the river safely. At the bottom of the falls the water swirls and splashes at is calms marginally, flowing along the canyon, endlessly wearing down the earth beneath it.

Dean’s got his binoculars around his neck and he scans the walls of the canyon, the sky and the water. Birds of prey soar overhead and smaller birds swoop and whirl and they flit in and out of the stony outcrops. There are tiny bird identifier books in the lodge gift shop and against every fiber of his being, Dean thinks he might get one to keep tucked away in his duffle like Sam has his star guide. Just downstream from the falls the body of an elk lies entangled among the rocks. He looks at the water again and imagines being caught up in it, carried unstoppably to your death, unable to escape and with full knowledge of your plight. A sudden chill makes him shiver and with one last look around he makes his way back to the top and away from the rushing water.

The next stop is at a viewing point downstream, far enough away that the dangerously rushing river looks like a postcard image, quiet and unthreatening, just water falling. There’s no roar, no sense of menace and Dean leans on the rail, thinking about how many people don’t see things how they really are, lulled into a false sense of security about the world they live in. He stands there for a good long while, lost in unusually serious thoughts before shaking it off and heading on his way. The canyon is impressive and the chance to get so close to the falls will stick with him for a while. But the Grand Canyon is still his goal and he’s going to get there eventually, hopefully with Sam in tow.

It’s his last day in the park so he takes a roundabout route back to the lake. The diversity of the landscape has him pulling over often in grasslands cropped short by the buffalo and elk and forested areas with thick with trees. He sits for a while watching a mother black bear herd her two cubs across the road and up a hill until they disappear into the woods. He even goes so far as to leave the car at a trailhead and walk a short, looping path around a pond. As the wind cools his face and sunlight sparkles on the water Dean shakes his head and huffs a laugh.

“Good thing I’m headed back to civilization tomorrow or I might forget how much I hate camping and live out here like Grizzly Adams,” he says to a frog sitting beside the trail. “Probably should be on my way.”

*

The bonfire program that night is on owls and as Dean sits on his bench he mentally replays the time one swooped down over his head in the moon brightened night, startling him so much he missed the shot he was about to take. If his father hadn’t been right behind him, his life would have ended at seventeen. Death by black dog and owl. Sure enough, the program gets around to owls in lore and their association with death. Dean’s not as enchanted as the rest of the crowd by the mimicking of the different hoots and the stories about habitat. Owls are bad news and nothing will change his mind.”

It’s dark and quiet when he finally turns in and then, in the distance, high pitched yips and yowls waft along the wind. Could be coyotes but he’s going to insist on it being wolves. Tomorrow he’s got to head back out, a last few days on the road with just him and the Impala, crossing Wyoming, through Nebraska and into Minnesota on Saturday. He hopes his dad doesn’t call so he and Sam can stay at a nice hotel for a few days. Maybe they can finally hit the planetarium in St. Paul. Dean thinks of Sam’s well worn star guide and grins. He’s got a miniature bird guide stuffed in the pocket of his duffle now, he can match Sam geek book for geek book. Rolling over and curling up in his blanket he lets the hunters of Yellowstone sing him to sleep.


End file.
